


In Sauron’s Lab

by tolkienhorror



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Acid, Anal Sex, Angband, Begging, Belly Bulging, Bestiality, Bladder Control, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Body Modification, Branding, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Catheters, Choking, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Piercing, Collars, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deepthroating, Dildos, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemas, First Age, Force-Feeding, Gags, Genital Piercing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knotting, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Mouth Sewn Shut, Muteness, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oral Sex, Piercings, Prolapse, Psychological Torture, Public Humiliation, Public Nudity, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Ring gag, Rough Oral Sex, Sewing, Sounding, Starvation, Suspension, Tattoos, Torture, Vinegar, Vomiting, Watersports, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves, Wolves, barbed wire, more or less, sauron has issues, spiked dildos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26616145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolkienhorror/pseuds/tolkienhorror
Summary: A series of headcanons and drabbles about Sauron's various methods of torture.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon (mentioned)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77





	1. File #1: Piercings

Mairon has always had a profound love for piercings.

Not necessarily on himself, obviously, though he does like to wear a ring or two when his Lord is in the rare mood for physical pleasure. But sex has always been means to an end and a shallow adrenaline rush, rather than the need that Melkor’s limiting physical form demands every now and then. So Mairon only bothers altering his own current shape with the desired adornments when spending the night in his Master’s chambers.

But what he _does_ enjoy is decorating his slaves.

Piercings are a wonderfully versatile tool for pleasure and torture alike, the easy and clean alternative to every other form of body art. Sure, stitches work too if they don't stay in long enough for the flesh to mend in the wrong places. To shut an insolent new prisoner up for a while, or to sew a female-identifying slave shut for protection, punishment, or both, needle and thread will do just fine.

Mairon is, of course, not above branding and inking his slaves if he wants to permanently mark them as his or as the livestock, tool, or sport they are. On an elf, a finely-shaped branding iron to the right place does have its appeal. Especially since the constantly renewing skin of a Firstborn demands a repeat performance of that ritual every few years, including all that entertaining squealing and twitching of another bound and naked shape under Mairon’s hands.

But piercings? Far more perfect for the daily, universal use on elves. With that kind of healing factor? Take them out, and two days later the prisoner won't even have those annoying tiny holes and infections to show that men will carry for years afterward.

Besides, Mairon doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of those looks of anger and terror during the procedure itself. In his field, it is fairly practical, having the power to easily sing metal into shape, sealing off any piece of metal he chooses to put in a subject’s body, far more effectively than any barbell or screw could. It’s really the best way to make sure prisoners can't rip their pretty new jewelry out themselves, unlike they want to shred the body part in question to pieces.

Not for a lack of trying, of course; some of his less wise and reasonable subjects are stubborn enough to mutilate themselves when they first come here. Usually, they don’t try again once Mairon has patiently reinserted the adornment in question, this time keeping it searing hot though.

Usually, it’s fairly easy to tell for his Lord and his inferiors who Mairon’s current favorite pets are. It’s those, he’ll always decorate with exceptionally beautiful and costly piercings, usually crafted by himself and adorned with crystals that will chafe the subject’s skin anew every day.

Most of such jewels ever crafted for one single pet have gone to Maitimo, of course. Mairon has stopped to count after the first few dozen, but he sure never gets tired finding a new perfect spot to puncture. There are artful patterns and carefully chosen ladders of metal decorating his favorite pet’s pale, freckled skin all over by now. Sometimes, Mairon takes a night just to enjoy the sight. Then he shackles his prisoner in the middle of his living room, spearing him on some long, thick, barbed plug just to keep him writhing and whining and then continues to watch his best piece of work for hours.

Yes, he’s done a good job with Maitimo indeed, in almost every regard. He’s not done completely breaking him yet, and there are a few more physical alterations he wants to see done when he’s got a few weeks of time to spare next. But his cute little ex-King is sure a sight to behold. When Maitimo is dancing on tiptoes like this, trying in vain to escape the assault of the cruel device in his abused backside, the soft clanging of countless studs and rings in his flesh is pure music.

It’s always these nights when Mairon can’t resist putting another piece of metal more into his favorite prisoner. He mostly ends up suspending Maitimo by the large rings in his back and thighs since his pet is most likely to keep beautifully still for him then before he gets to work. Maitimo doesn't get to choose the spot of his new adornment, of course, but if he's been behaving well enough for a while, sometimes, he gets to choose the shape.

Which is a hard pick as Mairon knows very well. Studs are more likely to get ripped out if they get stuck somewhere, and easier to grab by superiors and hostile fellow prisoners under clothing. But rings are obviously always very tempting for Mairon to use for chains and sewing matters.

Today, it’s the hefty but not too long stud that the bony, trembling chin finally nods to when Mairon holds out his hand to his prisoner questioningly, after safely securing him from the ceiling. Seeing as Mairon has chosen to pierce the sensitive underside of that pretty long cock last time and has been thoroughly enjoying himself since then, fastening a leash to said golden ring with his name on it, or riding that beautiful, thick shaft for hours, whenever he wanted to see his pet especially mortified, he probably can’t blame him.

Sweet, foolish darling Maitimo sometimes still seems to think, his ordeal can’t get any worse.

He realizes his mistake when Mairon swaps the sensitive little spot between his ever-battered balls and his swollen hole down with alcohol, a tuneless, mirthful tune on his lips, and thrashes in his bonds for a moment, just to sag back down with a groan at the pain from the flesh around his shoulder blades and deep in his thighs stretched to its limit.

Mairon pats his bare ass absently before starting to insert the new piece. He notices with little surprise that Maitimo’s broken screams still make him hard in moments of deep intimacy like this. Maybe he’ll allow him to suck him off when they’re done here, just for pressure relief.

Right now, he’s being far more interested in the look of that beautiful silver glistening between his pet’s twitching cheeks. It is a little masterpiece, truly. The tiny rubies keeping the stud in place, Mairon has cut into the eight-pointed star of his pet’s former house. They’re cruelly digging into his skin, making sure he’ll never sit comfortably again as long as he’s wearing this. The gems have the color of his pet’s hair which is just the perfect finishing touch. Maybe Mairon should make sure, no one else will fuck his little favorite project for a few months to come, at least not that fine piece of ass. This one, he wants to heal properly.

He doesn’t bother removing the ring gag when he walks around to his pet’s widely opened mouth, impatient hand fumbling with the laces of his leather pants. Wrapping his hand around the matted, fiery braids, he thrusts deep into the scarred throat and swings his prisoner’s bound body gently back and forth, letting his considerably lessened body weight and the momentum of the suspension do the work while Maitimo chokes and screams around his cock.

Suspension piercings. So useful.

After the fairly satisfying height, Mairon decides to leave his pet alone for a few days where it hangs. Maitimo can still be a stubborn little bastard even after all this time; it’s half his charm, really. Mairon doesn’t want clumsy fingertips messing with his newest creation.

Maitimo, after all, has become his most ambitious piece of art.


	2. File #2: Filled up

“Choose,” Sauron demands coldly, and Maitimo knows better than to disobey.

He’s tried a couple of times, in the beginning, when he was still in possession of his dignity, his clothes, his anger and spite, his hair. It never ended well.

The first time he said no when Sauron ordered him to play along in one of the dark maia’s sick experiments, the enemy crushed his throat by standing on it

_seeing as you don’t know how to speak, you don’t need your vocal cords, do you_

until Maitimo choked on his own blood and passed out; his voice still doesn’t sound the same.

The second time, a considerable length of a Balrog’s whip was shoved up his unprepared behind

_if you can’t figure out how to kneel properly, we’ll have to keep you from sitting down, won’t we_

and then yanked back out with such force that a lot of charred, stretched flesh came with it. Sauron needed a week to put all of his intestines back where they belong, and Maitimo has been awake for most of the procedure.

The third time when he said no, he had to watch another Balrog spear the restrained body of an elf that Maitimo had known since birth, on the enormous, glowing length of his inhuman cock, inch by painstaking inch, until the screeching screams of agony had turned to bloody gargles.

_what kind of leader are you who won’t even suffer to protect his own people_

The beast then proceeded to fuck the dying body for another 20 minutes straight, right before Maitimo’s eyes before the light of life finally left that poor soldier.

These days, Maitimo knows better than to disobey Sauron.

So he points, dully - with his chin as that is the only part he can move at least half an inch right now - to the middle one of the three spacious jars waiting on the table next to his usual spot on Sauron’s examination stretcher, though he really couldn’t care less. The plain metal vessels all look the same, and none of them will contain anything good.

The movement has his throat tense up, and Maitimo tries his best not to gag around the thick tube threaded through his ring gag and shoved deep in his mouth, just far enough to make sure everything coming through it will make it down to his stomach, not far enough to spare him the taste of whatever his tormentor will choose to fill him up with this time.

Maitimo hasn’t eaten in more than two weeks and he should probably be grateful that he will be at least rid of the clenching knot of emptiness that his stomach has become for a few minutes. But he knows Sauron well enough to know, the price for that little moment of comfort will be far too high.

“A smart choice, pet. You are starting to learn.”

Sauron absently pats his belly, then gives a firmer smack to the slightly bulging skin below, and Maitimo groans when his inner muscles clench around the other, much thicker tube deeply lodged in his rectum.

It doesn’t _hurt_ , not like the variety of spiked phalluses and cocks he’s been raped with since being taken prisoner. But it sits far enough inside of him to ensure that whatever Sauron will choose to empty into that funnel at the end of that second tube, will go deeply into his body and not come out anytime soon.

Maitimo could live with that too, he supposes; after almost a year in the misery that is his life now, he’s no stranger to the humiliation of enemas anymore. And as painful as burns from some too hot liquid are, as revolting as it is when one of his abusers chooses to fill his abused ass with all the piss they have in them that day, sometimes until Maitimo can taste it on his tongue ... That kind of traces usually go away and heal quickly.

It’s the sound he’s being afraid of tonight. Almost as thick as a finger, stretching his limp cock open to its limits, and Sauron hasn’t bothered to lube up that third hollow tube before thrusting it all the way in until it’s bottomed out in Maitimo’s dehydrated bladder. His urethra throbs and stings and he knows he’s bleeding but that’s not what worries him. Bleedings stop.

It’s the additional sheer helplessness of knowing he’s about to be filled up from several sides at once, and that there’s nothing he can do to control or stop it, that has him shivering in cold sweat and yank in vain on the straps and shackles that tie him down on the table. That keep his scraggy legs up and spread widely, all of his most sensitive parts on obscene, vulnerable display for his captor’s too hot, dainty hand.

Though Maitimo’s struggling is achieving nothing but more sore muscles and a little quiet rattling, of course, Sauron feigns exhausted disappointment. “Now, now, don’t ruin that good impression with fidgeting, pet. You’ve been doing so nicely in the last few weeks. You’re on a good way to become my favorite test subject. But you really ...“

The maia’s lithe, tall shape bends down over Maitimo’s bare crotch, the unnatural white of his skin that shows under the low, pointed cut of his black tunic, flushing with just the hint of pulsating red as he stretches out his long, forked tongue. With a purr, he licks over the sturdy shining metal protruding from Maitimo’s tortured orifices.

“... need to learn how to keep _still_.”

Sauron presses down on Maitimo's lower body again, intentionally and harder this time, while Maitimo thrashes against his bonds once more, wailing into his gag when the metal inside his ass and cock heats up within seconds, blistering highly sensitive tissue, eating away at muscles that won’t be working as it should for days. Weeks maybe, depending on when Sauron decides to sing his body back together this time.

“Oh, pet. _What_ did I just say? Looks like I have chosen a good time to help you work on your discipline.”

Sauron feigns another bored sigh, betrayed by the considerable bulge under his tight pants when he reaches for the pot that Maitimo has chosen earlier. With the handle fastened to one of the many hooks in the frame of this hated dreadful table that Maitimo has spent most of his last months on, Sauron angles the vessel right above the first of those three funnels that promise another few hours of greater pain than Maitimo has ever known it in his whole life.

“Now be a good little pet and have your dinner. I wouldn’t want to have to punish you for choking on your own tongue _again_.”

Maitimo _does_ wince and retch when the first taste of filth and salt and ash hits his tongue, because if the smell hadn’t given it away yet, now he knows exactly what this is. He’s been force-fed by one of the cocks violating him frequently too often not to. But this will go down his throat whether he actively helps it or not, so it won’t make a difference. And he’s really not interested in snorting Balrog piss from his nose, so he obeys, because what else is there to do?

An unpleasant but still a lot more bearable warmth than the one before spreads in his stomach, and for a moment he thinks, he can do this, he will be okay.

Then Sauron places the second of the bowls over the funnel hanging over his reddened, swollen hole, and Maitimo’s guts are being set on fire. He’s not exactly sure _what_ it is or how he even still makes it to scream between swallowing the too quickly, relentlessly dripping liquid.

But somehow, in _some_ way, he still can take it, he still can stay awake and lucid, and that’s all that counts. Because when he blacks out, Sauron always gets angry enough to make his ordeal even worse, and Maitimo doesn’t think it actually _can_ be right now.

That is before Sauron opens the lid of the last vessel and the smell of vinegar hits Maitimo’s senses.

His eyes go wide enough to almost pop from their sockets. Somehow, without ever wanting it, he croaks out a plea between the metal confinements stretching his jaw painfully open, and then he almost _does_ choke because he forgets to swallow and he can talk no more.

Not that it matters. Sauron doesn’t even comment on his little moment of verbal weakness. With the hand not busy hanging up the third bowl, he’s languidly, almost disinterestedly rubbing his raging erection through the leather fabric of his clothes while he sets the third and last vessel and tips it into position.

A sensation of liquid lava travels through the already too-hot metal in Maitimo’s cock, hitting his insides like that hot-red poker that Sauron raped him once with, in the very beginning, when he dared to say no to riding his cock in front of his fellow prisoners. He screams and screams, spluttering snot and bile and piss through mouth and nose, wheezing and coughing between the desperate, unintelligible pleas for mercy from his throat that he knows he will not be granted. Blood is seeping from the wounds of his restraints on his wrists and ankles, his hips and shoulders. He can hear the bones in his neck crack dangerously from his useless strain against the straps on his jaw and forehead tying his head down, and he knows, he won’t be able to turn his head for weeks to come once this is over.

Which it won’t be before he’s ripped open and poisoned from the inside out by body fluids and acid whatever other shit he’s being fed; he doesn’t need to hear Sauron’s next words to know.

Visibly satisfied with his work, Sauron gives him another absent pat on his stomach that is slowly but certainly bulging with too much liquid pouring into him from three sides.

“Much better. Now let’s see how much we can put into you before you start tearing, shall we? It’s really for your own good, pet. We don’t want a mess like last time when you provide some well-deserved entertainment for our hard-working soldiers next. Learn how to be grateful how well I’m looking out for my favorite subjects, and you can make your life in these halls so much easier.”

He bends over Maitimo’s head to press a humiliating kiss to the top of his sweat-drenched head before walking back to his desk to pick up his usual parchment roles for his notes on their little experiment, the half-hard erection between his legs already forgotten. He seldom wastes time fucking Maitimo himself these days. There are so many more entertaining techniques for him to use on that broken shell of an elf that was once a High King.

Maitimo is left alone hurting, bleeding, desperate, and losing another fragment of his soul to ever-lasting hopelessness.


	3. File #3: Bred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! This is, of course, my time of the year, so I couldn't let it pass without another chapter of Mad Scientist Sauron.

Sauron is not happy, and Maitimo doesn't know why. As far as he is concerned, it's been a good month; well, as good it gets, living in slavery in Angband. He's been keeping up with his chores in the mines in spite of the bones of his right hand not quite having healed over yet, after a too-close encounter with one of the Balrogs the other day. He hasn't let himself be caught comforting other thralls. And he's warmed Sauron's bed without any resistance whenever he's been summoned.

He doesn't know what he did wrong this time, and that's always the worst of it.

Sure, Sauron never _needs_ a reason to punish him, but usually, the guy is at least predictable to _some_ degree. When Maitimo ends up in an orc camp as entertainment, he'd usually let a wrong word against his torturers slip past his lips in the wrong company or broken an expensive tool by accident. When Sauron is tearing his body to pieces on that dreaded table in his lab just to mend it afterwards for his insane studies, Morgoth's Lieutenant had usually fucked up another attempt at conquering the land of Maitimo's family before, and needs some kind of success after having his own body punished by his master's hand.

Yes, by now Maitimo has a pretty good idea when they're likely to drag him from the mines for yet another session of suffering for another night or week.

This time it's different. It's been more than a year since he's last been _scared_.

Fear has become a rare notion since first he'd been brought before the Dark Lord and Sauron had broken his spirit the following night, fucking him raw with his wrists bolted to the wall and his mouth silenced by barbed wire.

None of the other thralls would understand what it even _is_ that he's still being afraid of at this point. Death would be a relief for any of them at this point.

For them, it's different though. They _can_ die.

Maitimo can feel the cruel whisper and the everlasting nagging of the oath sipping through his veins and keeping his mind awake even when some orcs get too careless with their whips and clubs and spiked poles ripping him open from the inside, ignoring all orders by their master to keep him alive. In such nights, when Sauron spends hour after hour cursing and growling, putting him back together with the frightening precision of his hands and his powerful song, Maitimo can all but feel his soul detach from his body, pulling away like a chained beast from the relentless grip of its owner. But the oath will not let him leave unless someone decides to cut his heart out or take his head off his shoulder, lest it is fulfilled.

By now, he knows that, and that is what still chills him to the bone when he realizes, Sauron is feeling bored or revengeful.

For him, it can only get _worse_.

Whatever the reason is this time, they're being very clear from the start that it's another night of unimaginable cruelty laying ahead when they get him. It's been long since they felt the need to make it a show, taking him to their commander. Maitimo has given up on any kind of resistance a few weeks in, and when Sauron is not renting him out for his troops to be passed around, he usually prefers to have Maitimo privately for himself to play with.

So Maitimo is not ready for the orc's blow against his temple that sends him flying to the ground before he's even really got to his feet. He hits his head on a protruding rock of his little sleeping alcove faster than he can dodge. Maitimo is not sure if it's the last fracture in his nose that immediately starts bleeding or a new nick somewhere in that ruin that has once been a fine, straight line, and he doesn't get time to think about it.

Sweaty hands, grim with mud and the occasional insect feasting on festering wounds, rip his clothes off of him, a heavy boot standing on his spine keeping him from straightening up, from escaping the sharpness of the rocky ground against his unprotected flesh. Maitimo is still trying to catch his breath when the orc yanks his head back by the matted mess that is his hair, and a heavy metal collar is being fastened around his neck. That, at least, is not new though they usually only put it on him before they let in whatever group of lowlife has made the most kills in Morgoth's last raid, to allow them some fun with the Dark Lord's favorite war spoil.

The spikes are longer than before though, sharper too, so that every smallest move of Maitimo's head has them dig deeply enough into his flesh to draw blood. He's obviously not supposed to look around much tonight.

Coughing against the growing pain from two bruised ribs, Maitimo somehow makes it to push himself up, only for his upper body to be shoved right back against the ground. With pebbles and dust gagging him, feeling cold metal push against his unprepared hole next draws little sound from him. It's been a while since someone used him last, and torturers in Angband usually don't believe in lube. By the time he's being stretched open by something very thick and long, more blood is dripping down the insides of his thighs, and it's only thanks to continuous dehydration that his eyes are staying dry.

Maitimo supposes he should be grateful that this time, there are no spikes on _this_ , but the phallus is strangely heavy at its ending, a sensation tugging on his swollen hole from inside that he can't quite place. Not until the orc takes his hand away and a string of metal threads falls towards the ground, clanking, tangled, bumping against the back of his thighs and his balls. Maitimo screams out, because _those_ have spikes, tiny and diamond-sharp like the wire they used to gag him with at the beginning. By the time they'll arrive wherever he's supposed to go, he won't be sitting for a week. That is if he's being lucky.

The orc is in front of him before he can blink his sight free or try to shift his weight in a way that won't have the cruel tail rip his most sensitive parts open with every movement. A hard yank against the collar from the chain attached to it has Maitimo gasp for air as his skin is squeezed and punctured.

He's not gone far enough yet to not hear the first word the orc is uttering to him since he arrived, luckily, therefore he can avoid being dragged along by obeying the order to crawl instead. Maitimo is not exactly sure, it will be better to have his palms and knees scraped raw by the time he'll get to wherever he's being wanted though.

But that is not the worst thing he feels, being led towards the main tower where Sauron's accommodations are located, right through the other groups of slaves busy with work or their own ordeals. It's not even the shame and defeat, and not the fear either, though he still can't quite place why they insist on starting to punish him so early tonight.

It's the compassion and terror that he can see in his companions' faces from the corner of his eyes. Recognition, in some cases.

He wonders if they know more than him and decides, he doesn't need to think about that.

Until he's being led down dozens of slippery, moldy stairs into some underground facility he's never consciously been to, Maitimo actually still has a good grip at his apprehension; but when the telltale howling, aggressive yapping, and the occasional bark of huge wolves get louder and louder, his hands are shaking enough for him to almost slip on the trail of blood that he leaves by now. He's seen Sauron's wolves from up close, more than once. He's been forced to watch that pack tear apart several elves' bodies open alive and feast on their flesh and organs, and at least two times because of mistakes that Maitimo himself had made.

Maybe he's overestimated his value to his torturers after all this time. Maybe Morgoth has decided to get rid of him after all, seeing as he's lost all value anyway, the moment his brother apparently decided, an oath and a couple of shiny jewels are more important to him than Maitimo's life.

Maitimo supposes, going out by wolf-teeth and claws isn't the very _worst_ way to die but that doesn't mean he's looking forward to watching those beasts eat pieces of him while his stubborn mind clings to the last remains of life until the very last second.

He's not sure if he should be relieved or more terrified when he's being led past the den that the animals are ranting in, loud enough now to not hear any other noise, throwing themselves against the thick bars separating them from Maitimo's bare body. Apparently, they'll be disappointed in their hopes for early dinner, at least for the moment.

Instead, Maitimo ends up in a room brighter and cleaner than the rest of the underground enclosure, almost empty except for a contraption that he recogizes immediately from his life across the sea, from before he entered the gates of hell. From a happier, almost carefree time when he was still trying to please his father in every way possible and obviously never succeeding, seeing as said father has thanked him by separating him from his husband and leaving him with a Kingship that Maitimo never wanted, after getting his mad behind killed in his blindness and egoism. Today, Maitimo might mourn those wasted days when he was trying so hard to be of any worth to this family to whom he's never been more than as a badly working tool of representation.

But back then, he's been trying his best to find something he was being really good at, like with giving Fëanáro a hand in the family stables. And one of the few successes he's had there was having his first own horse bred from his mother's mare, in a stall exactly like this. Protected from a heavier, in its act possibly inconsiderate male from wood and metal shielding the upper body and head, with the vulnerable backside all the more exposed, to what would without the animal's consent have been an assault.

For a moment, Maitimo holds stock-still against better knowledge, ignoring even the spikes piercing his skin so deeply that he's convinced for a moment, they'll enter his airway when the orc gives his chain another yank.

The collar is too tight to do much screaming and pleading, even if he wanted too, and now he can taste blood, but for a moment, he's completely unable to move, his eyes wide, fixed on the piece of furniture in the middle of the room that he's being dragged towards. He wonders how much time he can buy if just waits for his captor to rip his head half off his shoulders with that damn collar.

The orc is obviously too impatient for him to make up his mind. He stomps behind him before Maitimo can think better and swings his lash, the thick leather tongues going straight between Maitimo's legs.

He can't get moving fast enough on his battered hands and knees to escape the blow completely and almost collapses on the ground, screaming out choked against the pressure of the collar, when the hideous tail is pressed harshly against his swollen genitalia. His instincts have been trained well enough for survival in the last few months for his limbs to react even while his head is still buzzing, so he finds himself moving again before he can earn another blow.

His legs won't carry him right when he's being pulled upwards at last, and he more falls against the smooth, ridiculously clean leather of the breeding bench than leaning over it. There is no strength in him, neither in his body nor in his mind, to fight the grip on his wrists and ankles, that chains his arms and parts and immobilizes his legs. By the time he's being left alone, all he can sense is the throb in his backside and his cock and balls, the blood steadily dripping from a dozen new wounds, hitting the earthy ground with the precision of clockwork. Almost a hundred a minute. Not enough to hope for passing out anytime soon, barely enough even to have his head swim on the verge of falling into lethargy.

It's almost half an hour before the quiet pad of paws outside lets him know, they've had enough of watching him tremble and squirm from a distance. With his hair knotted around a hook in the contraption, he couldn't turn his head even if he was willing or wishing to choke himself; but he doesn't need to see to know what is coming. The air is being infused with the stench of feral hormones, to a point where he tastes bile in his mouth, filled with the too fast, too harsh panting of an animal seeking to copulate. The shadow falling over Maitimo's bent form when the wolf reaches the stand is huge, massive, and Maitimo can feel his skin go numb with approaching shock. It must be the largest dog of the pack – because of course it is –, and he can't help but wonder if he's meant to die in these facilities down here after all, just not the way he's initially thought.

The dull thought leaves him startling when he feels the scrape of sharp teeth against his exposed cheeks. He almost expects a first sensation of tearing flesh and searing pain ... Instead, there's the unforgiving pressure of the tail against his torn open skin once more that has him wince, followed by a weak scream when the wolf bites down on the whole thing, seemingly unimpressed by the sting of spikes himself, and rips it out of him.

Maitimo's sore muscles clench down uncomfortably but he isn't left empty for long. Hot wetness scrapes over his wounds as the wolf drinks from his blood, adding another layer of burning heat to his injuries before the long, strong tongue slips inside of him.

This time, he retches, there's no way to hold it back, not even for the sake of keeping his straining muscles from pushing against the spikes of his collars. Bile is dripping from his chapped lips, joining the puddles of red on the floor from his useless attempts to fight his shackles; to escape a lower creature seeking to satisfy its needs – only lust for more of its victim's blood, but Maitimo's got no illusion that won't change soon – as he's being probed deeply.

There's nowhere to go, of course, and by the time he can hear and feel the wolf mount the contraption, the occasional drop of salt from his sweat-drenched body is joined by whatever fluid his eyes can still come up still in spite of the lack of water of the last few days. It's only when something far too thick, pointed painfully like an arrowhead, stabs at his helpless hole until it glides home, that Maitimo finally manages to flee into the darkness of his subconsciousness.

That escape is the only weapon of defense he has at this point and it's not always working; but his wake mind seems to be of the opinion that he doesn't need to be present for this very special kind of rapee. He can never escape completely, the oath wouldn't let him anyway, but it's growing dark enough around him for the stretch and dry burn in his ass to be reduced to a dull ache, for the disgusting stench to turn into a heavy, neutral veil covering his airways, for colors and shapes to blur in front of his eyes. His own noises of distress have turned into an almost soundless whine in the tact of his enemy's hips moving against his, and Maitimo wonders, for a moment, if this is maybe even not that bad after all. At least it will be over soon, and an animal is easily satisfied, a stranger to higher forms of torture and sadism.

The feeling of even more pressure against his overused hole, growing to the point of threatening serious injury, tears him out of his haze, smashing that hope to pieces. He's managed to suppress the devastating thought of these animal's mating rituals in his horror so much that the realization of the wolf's knot forming inside of him, tying him to the creature for only Eru knows how long, brings life back to his body with the literal punch to his guts. He finds himself writhing again until his wrists threaten to break once more in their chains, hoarse screams from his sore throat spreading spit, bile, and red on the ground as he struggles to not lose his mind to complete insanity.

It would be a mercy, probably, but it's also what his enemies want, and this last, only triumph, he will never be giving them.

But he can feel it, tugging on him, the wish to escape into the nothingness of complete oblivion forever, not caring what he does or what's being done to him, especially, when there's a last excruciating thrust against places inside of him that should never be speared by _anything_ , and the creature's seed is being pumped into him in hot spurts until he can feel it seeping through his guts, sloshing inside of him for days to come.

After another exhausted, violent retching, his throat swells up so much that he can hardly breathe anymore, and Maitimo finally feels himself blacking out.

The mercy doesn't last long. Maitimo's body is jolting awake to new unmanageable pain as his torturer suddenly pulls away from him where they're joined before the thick swelling of flesh at the base of its cock has completely gone down. A mixture of body fluids is seeping from his ruined hole, and judging from the ongoing burning inside of him and a swelling beginning to form at his abdomen, he's bleeding inside, too.

He's just dully wondering for how long they'll leave him here before they'll inform Sauron that he'll have to sew his favorite pet back together once more if he doesn't want to lose it, when the hated, well-known touch of a hand patting his bruised backside makes him freeze.

The shadow of the creature that he can see flickering on the ground changes, growing slightly smaller and much thinner, until Maitimo can make out the longish, pointed shape of Sauron's metal crown, hear the creatures amused growl turn into the not much more pleasant sound of his torturers screeching laughter.

"If I knew, a change of shape is all it takes to finally get a bit a delight out of you again, my little bird, I would have proposed such much sooner to the Lord." Almost as an afterthought, Sauron lets his hands slip down to the battered mess that is Maitimo's balls and squeezes until he screams hoarsely, shaking from the pain all over. "You're so much prettier, banging your head against the bars of your cage, my darling. Let's not ruin all that good progress you've made under my rule with boredom, shall we?"

Maitimo can see the shadow bending down, can hear the rustling of metal once more, and for a moment, he wants to plea for something he's never being granted, but his throat is still closed up, and he's blind with tears and can only mewl when the phallus is being shoved back into him. His passage is stretched too wide and slippery with blood and semen, though, so the device is slipping away again almost immediately. At least until Sauron slaps him firmly once more and he tightens up by instinct, rearing up against his bonds.

"Don't lose this, or I'll think of something bigger to plug you up with when I get back from taking care of my other favorite pets. They're just _dying_ to get a piece of you, you know."

A quiet tune on his lips, Sauron closes the door behind him.

The greedy howling at the other side of the hall and his own quiet sobs are Maitimo's only companion for the rest of the night.


End file.
